


La Douleur Exquise

by Intrepid_Inkweaver



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Internal Conflict, Loneliness, M/M, POV Second Person, Pining, Terminal Illnesses, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:22:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24196630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Intrepid_Inkweaver/pseuds/Intrepid_Inkweaver
Summary: Instead, he asks quietly, “What is this about, Sire?” and you wonder how it is that he could be so blind. Surely he should have seen through you long ago.
Relationships: Louis XIII of France/de Tréville (Trois Mousquetaires)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> La Douleur Exquise: The exquisite pain of wanting someone that you know you can never have.

You’ve had a little bit too much wine tonight. You’ve been doing that more than you used to. Treville is accompanying you back to your chambers, although you could’ve managed unaided. You know that he has noticed your odd behavior of late, and has been some mixture of concerned and exasperated about it. You lean on him now, not because you need to, but just because he is allowing it. When he’s not looking, you glance at him and wonder if he realizes that you’re not quite as drunk as you’re pretending.

Once you’ve arrived in your chambers, he begins to say his goodnights and bow out. A sudden impulse causes you stop him, reaching out and grabbing hold of his wrist. You can’t quite find an answer for him when he asks what it is that you need. You study his face for several moments, taking in his creased brow, his puzzled lips and his beloved blue eyes. However many thousands of times you have seen them, they still continue to fill you with longing. And fuck, you’ve told yourself over and over not to do this to yourself again. You’ve entertained the affections of so many men and women just to avoid thinking about this.

But the truth is, you’ve wanted him since you were old enough to know what this kind of want felt like, and God help you, you’ve been so lonely of late. And is there even a point now, in holding back? What could the consequences be for someone who’ll be dead within the year anyway?

You lean forward and kiss him softly on the lips. It is something you’ve never tried before, no matter how drunk you got or how much the ache in your chest grew when he smiled. You knew exactly how he would react, exactly what arguments he would make. And now you do it anyways, because right at this second, one kiss seems worth all of it.

He freezes in surprise when your lips touch, but he comes back to his senses quickly and pushes you gently away by your shoulders. You’d known he would, but a sour taste of disappointment still gathers in your mouth and something in your chest squeezes painfully.

“Louis…Louis, what are you doing?” he asks, his hand still on your shoulders. He is shocked and concerned and gentle, but not angry. (You like hearing your name. You hear it so rarely that sometimes it doesn’t feel like yours.)

You have no way to answer that, so you fall back on wine and arrogance. “Kissing you. I thought it was obvious,” you say with a smile that you know he will probably see through. Your gut twists. You are trying to make him believe that it was a spur of the moment impulse brought on by too much drink, and it’s miles away from the truth. But the truth is that you’ve been in love with him for decades, and that isn’t something you think you could bear him knowing.

“Why??” he asks, stridently. There is still no anger, though, only frustration and confusion.

“Why not?” you blurt out in lieu of a better answer, and it is childish and petulant and of course Treville is going to respond in exactly the way you would expect him to--

“Because I am old enough to be your father and I have known you since you were a boy!” (Treville doesn’t bring up that he is a man. They know each other well enough to know that is not an issue.)

It is a perfectly logical argument. Or it should be. Somehow, it never mattered to you much. You turn away to hide your face and compose your voice before turning halfway back to him. You can feel his searching gaze pinning you, looking for answers you only half pray he doesn’t find.

“Why must it matter?” you ask, and it is quieter and more sincere than you would have wished.

“Why must--?” He cuts himself off and his hands fly up to his hair as he turns away from you. Somehow, he has not picked up on the true meaning of your question. It should be a relief. His hands settle on his hips before turning back to you. You can only hope he doesn’t feel the need to outline all the reasons why it matters.

Instead, he asks you quietly, “What is this about, Sire?” and you wonder how it is that he could be so blind. Surely he should have seen this long ago. You don’t answer him, or look him in the eye. You busy yourself with pulling off your wig and settling it on it’s stand and beginning to prepare yourself for bed. You hear him sigh behind you and you can imagine just the way he is rubbing the bridge of his nose right now. The image makes an ache flare in your chest.

“Louis--” he says, but doesn’t have time to say more as the ache in your chest suddenly becomes something else and you double over in a cough that shakes through your whole body feeling like it has the power to crack your ribs. You grip the bedpost in front of you for support and you register that Treville has run forwrad to put an arm around your back, grasping your upper arm. He looks like he’s ready to yell for help, but you fling out a hand to grab his wrist and manage to get a “Don’t,” out in between the wracking coughs.

There’s a stubborn cant to his eyebrows, but he doesn’t call for anyone, only pulls you around so that you’re both seated on the edge of the bed. His arm stays around you and you’ve moved your grip on his arm down to his hand. It’s probably tight enough to hurt, but he doesn’t pull it away.

It takes a minute, but you finally manage to wrestle the coughing under control, before Treville is once again tempted to call for help. You sit, breathing heavily, not relinquishing his hand, though you do loosen your grip.

“Sire, you should allow me to call in the doctor,” he pleads, and you note again, for the thousandth time in your life, just how blue his eyes really are.

You shake your head. “No, I don’t want the doctor.” _There’s nothing the doctor can do for me._ “It’s nothing. I’m fine.” He knows you are lying. You don’t even need to look at him to know this. But you’re not ready to tell him this. You’re not ready to anyone about this. (Maybe if you don’t speak it, it won’t be true.)

You catch yourself studying his face again. The wrinkle between his brows and the displeased way he is pursing his lips. You don’t meet his eyes. You want to kiss him again. You want him to kiss you back. You want him to press you back onto the mattress and you want to feel his mouth on your neck, his hands at your waist. You want his lips at your ears, whispering your name over and over. It won’t ever happen, but you want it. Desperately enough that it hurts. (You want him to tell you he loves you.)

He has retracted the hand on your back and it feels like ice has settled there in it’s place. You still cling to his hand, and you run your thumb over his callouses absently in the quiet. His eyes are still on you, but you don’t think you can handle meeting his gaze right now.

The quiet sticks around for several more minutes while you collect yourself, but finally you lick your lips and try to say something, though it takes a couple of tries to come out, and when it does, it is quiet and hoarse.

“I’ve been…lonely.” It works as an explanation, and has the added benefit of being painfully true. You continue to stare down at his hand in your lap, and his grip tightens fractionally.

“I know,” he answers, equally quiet. “I am here for you, if you need me.”

_I do. So much more than you know._

“It’s getting late,” he says in a normal tone of voice. “You should try to sleep.” Concern is plain in his voice. He knows there’s more wrong than you are telling him. More than just loneliness and too much wine. You nod without saying anything and finally let go of his hand. He helps you climb into bed, though you can’t tell if it’s because of the coughing fit or if he just thinks you’re still drunk. You let him, either way.

Once you are seated under the covers against your pillows and he is about to say goodnight, you reach up to put a hand on his wrist again. He waits patiently for you to say something and finally you get up the nerve to look him in the eye. (It’s a pathetic request, but you are unable to swallow it.) “Stay here with me. Please? Just until I fall asleep.” _Hold me for a little while. Let me pretend I am loved._

You see the understanding finally dawn on his face, and it is humiliating to be so seen, but it is the way you can see him trying to come up with a gentle way to refuse you that makes something tear in your chest. You nod carefully and turn away from him, gathering the tattered remnants of your dignity to curl into your pillow with tears stinging your eyes. You only hope he leaves the room before the sob burning at your throat manages to claw it’s way out.

Instead of retreating footsteps, however, you hear a rustling and then feel the bed dip behind you. He settles a careful hand upon your upper arm and you are so shocked that you don’t react for a full minute, pulling your breathing into line. He is not touching you save for his hand, but he is close enough that you can feel his chest brush against your back with every inhale. You reach up with your opposite hand and lift his up and place it so that his arm is wrapped around your chest. He doesn’t tense up like you half expected; instead he shuffles slightly closer so you can feel his warm breath on the back of your neck. It lulls you into a peaceful sleep, and you never feel the light kiss he places on your hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been nagging at me for months. I've just...got a lot of feelings about this little shit, alright?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic was originally going to have Treville's POV and then Louis's, but I was afraid that Treville's would be too boring to go in front of Louis's, which I liked better, so I just went with Louis's. However, this fic has continued to eat at my brain even after it was finished, so I ended up writing Treville's POV anyways. This only the second draft, so I may re-write it sometime soon.

The King is drunk again, and you are assisting him in returning back to his chambers. Tonight, you hadn’t had to cajole him into leaving as you've had to in nights past. He had merely held out an arm to you and requested that accompany him.

His behavior of late has been increasingly erratic. At first it had been an annoyance, but as it continues, you’ve grown more and more concerned. Now, he is leaning on you heavily and glancing at you from beneath his lashes when he thinks you aren’t looking. He is uncharacteristically silent, and you have the feeling he is not as drunk as he is pretending. You don’t know what to make of it.

You deliver him to his chambers, and when he doesn’t indicate that he wants anything more of you, you begin to say your good nights. Before you turn to leave, however, he reaches out to grasp your wrist, stopping you.

“Is there something you needed, Sire?” He doesn’t answer. He stands and studies your face as though he is trying to memorize it, his expression inscrutable even to you, who has known him so long.

He doesn’t do it particularly fast, but somehow, you are still caught completely off-guard when he leans forward to kiss you gently on the mouth. Of all the things you might have expected, this is certainly not one of them, and as such it takes a moment for you to come back to your senses and gently grasp his shoulders to push him back. There’s a flash of what might be disappointment in his eyes as you do so.

“Louis. Louis, what are you doing?” you ask him softly, still holding onto his shoulders. You’ve known he’s been lonely of late, but could that really be what prompted this? Has he become lonelier than even you have been able to see? It’s certainly not something he’s ever attempted before.

You watch as he pulls on a mask over his barely-visible disappointment, and adopts a slightly drunken swagger, giving you a blinding smile that’s just this side of convincing. “Kissing you, I thought it was obvious,” he says as though he is speaking to a flirtatious young noble and not the counselor that has known him since he was a child.

“Why??” you blurt, unable to keep your voice from rising a notch. Your confusion has only grown, and with it, your frustration.

“Why not?” he answers, almost petulantly.

Your mouth hangs open for a split second before you can respond, “Because I am old enough to be your father, and I have known you since you were a boy!” _  
_

He turns halfway away from you, hiding his face from view. You carefully watch for his tells, of which you know there are many. He is a man that wears his heart openly on his sleeve, though he has grown far more secretive of late. After a moment, he partially turns back to you and asks in a strained voice, “Why must it matter?”

“Why must--” you start to repeat, but stop yourself, turning away to calm down, running your hands through your hair, and try to decide how to respond. How best to understand what the king is going through that could have led to him kissing you, of all people.

You turn back to him and ask quietly and directly, “What is this about, Sire?”

He remains stubbornly reticent, turning away to pull off his wig and settle it on it’s stand, and readying himself for bed. You sigh in exasperation and massage the bridge of your nose to ward off the impending headache growing behind your eyes.

Several moments pass, and you step forward. “Louis--” you say, but you are cut off as the king is suddenly bent nearly in two by a horrible wracking cough that shakes through his entire body. He is gripping the bedpost white-knuckled and you are running towards him before you can even register the fear that grips at your heart. As you reach out to grab him, you open your mouth to yell for help _now_ , but Louis manages to grab your arm hard and in between coughs, looks you in the eyes, shaking his head and says, _“Don’t”_ very firmly.

You nearly call out anyway, but something in his eyes stops you, so instead you help onto the edge of the bed. He’s moved his grip down to your hand and is holding it tight enough for the bones to grind together, but you make no move to pull away from him.

When he stops coughing, he sits next to you, still gasping for air, and you plead, “Sire, you should allow me to call the doctor.” He has loosened his death grip on your hand, but he makes no move to release it.

His breathing has slowed enough for him to answer, “No. I don’t want the doctor.” He looks at you for a brief moment, but quickly looks away. “It’s nothing,” he says quietly, and smiles at you, though he still can’t look you in the eye. You know that he is lying. And he knows that you know. He is making no effort to hide it, and the fear tangled in your chest that had somewhat settled since the coughing had died down raises it’s head again to eat at your insides.

Once again he is studying your face with uncomfortable intensity, as though he is afraid that he’ll never see it again. There is some inscrutable lingering sadness in his eyes as he does so. He still has a hold of your hand in his lap, and he is stroking his fingers over it in a way that might be unconscious, or might be intentional.

The two of you sit in the quiet for a long while as the candle burns down before Louis brings himself to speak. His voice is quiet and hoarse and he is hesitant, saying simply, “I’ve been…lonely.”

You know it to be true, you have seen him struggling to give his trust of late. Despite this new caution, his instincts have not gotten any better, relying on his very unreliable brothers as he has been. And he is just as stubborn as he has always been, refusing to listen, refusing to believe when told who is not worthy of his trust.

“I know,” you answer him quietly, gently squeezing his hand. You add, “I am here for you, if you need me,” in the hope that he will eventually be willing to tell you what is truly wrong. He doesn’t answer, or even look up at you. He has stopped stroking your hand, though he still holds onto it. You can see defeat in his posture, and that makes you worry ever more.

You realize how late it’s gotten, taking note of the darkness of the shadows outside the light of the candles. “It’s getting late,” you say, “You should try to sleep.”

Louis nods silently and you help him into his bed, fearing he may be exhausted from his coughing fit; or worse, that moving might trigger another. Once he is settled against his pillows, you move around the room, putting out the excess candles, and then return to his bedside to wish him good night. He is watching you intently, and before you can speak again, he lays a hand on your wrist and slowly meets your eyes.

“Stay here with me. Please? Just until I fall asleep?” His voice is quiet, and there is something raw, and almost desperate, in the words, and you are taken aback. There is something in his eyes now that is more than loneliness or sadness. It is something else entirely, something that part of you thinks that it would be better to never have seen.

This realization and your subsequent line of thought must be visible on your face, because a shadow abject despair--or heartbreak, possibly--crosses Louis’s before he can stop it. He looks down slowly, and gives you a careful nod before turning away from you onto his side.

You are shocked and unsure of how to react. You don’t know where this might have come from, nor when it started, but you do know it was never something you’d have considered dealing with. But the king is lonely, and trapped in his own despair, and you hate seeing him so because as frustrating as he is, you care about him more than you can say. So you put out the last candle, slip off your shoes and jacket, and carefully climb under the covers behind him, settling a hand on his upper arm. You feel his breath catch, and he does nothing for several moments as though he can’t quite believe it. He then carefully takes a hold of your hand and pulls it around so that your arm is wrapped around him, your palm pressed to his chest. You move closer to his back to make yourself more comfortable.

He falls asleep more quickly than you would have though possible, and you lay there as his breathing evens out, feeling his chest rise and fall under your hand. The worry in your mind continues to prey on you, and you press a kiss to the back of his head and pray that whatever it is that he refused to tell you about passes. As for the rest? You may not be able to give him what he wants, but maybe you can at least relieve some of the loneliness for him. You fall asleep slowly, rubbing your thumb gently against Louis's collar bone.


End file.
